


Tribute

by Island_of_Reil



Category: The Goblin Emperor - Katherine Addison
Genre: Body Worship, Coronation Ceremony 2017, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Scars, Treat, masculinity issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-14
Updated: 2017-09-14
Packaged: 2018-12-20 05:31:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11914230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Island_of_Reil/pseuds/Island_of_Reil
Summary: It occurs to him that if Csevet calls another beautiful there must be some truth in it.





	Tribute

**Author's Note:**

  * For [farevenasdecidedtouse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/farevenasdecidedtouse/gifts).



A soldier’s body is a utilitarian thing. A tool, a weapon, a composite of intimidating muscles and unsightly scars and sometimes a limp as well. One does not look at a soldier the way one would look at a woman. Or a pretty young man.

Beshelar, therefore, is always taken by surprise at how Csevet’s eyes devour him when he undresses. Csevet, he thinks, was fashioned to be looked at, with his fine features and slender form and flawless skin. But when Beshelar removes his shirt, the grey of Csevet’s eyes seems to darken. Csevet’s fingers, their only callus that of his pen, record with fascination every bulge and dip of the musculature that lines Beshelar’s shoulders and upper arms, then slide down over the hard plateau of his breast and the ridges of his belly as if committing all these contours to memory.

They even trace the ugly rent just above Beshelar’s hip, where the tip of the Nazhmorhathvereise blade forced its way in between the panels of his light armor and would have killed him had his captain not struck the barbarian down on the spot. Beshelar winces, and his ears begin to droop before he firmly sets them. Csevet looks up, eyes full of concern. “Does it pain thee still?”

“A bit,” Beshelar lies. It is all scar tissue, completely nerveless.

When all their clothes lie folded neatly atop the chest at the end of Csevet’s bed, it is Csevet’s mouth that pays tribute to the topography of Beshelar’s body. He assiduously avoids the great scar, but he kisses and licks and mouths every remaining inch of skin from chin to loins. It is discomfitingly strange, and somewhat ticklish, and profoundly arousing.

By the time he reaches Beshelar’s cock it is swollen rigid, almost to the point of pain, and dripping freely. He gives the head a soft kiss, and Beshelar catches his breath as it twitches in Csevet’s hand. But Csevet moves on, downward, pressing more kisses to Beshelar’s stones, occasionally stopping with a sheepish huff of laughter to remove a hair from his mouth.

Even were Beshelar to shave his body as is the fashion among courtiers, not soldiers, the skin of his sac would not be as sensitive as that of his cock. But the warmth of Csevet’s breath, the wetness of his tongue, makes Beshelar’s cock jump harder and leak more. “Leave off with this damned teasing,” he says hoarsely.

Csevet looks up, bemused. “It’s not teasing, Deret,” he says. “It’s pleasuring. Hast never had a mouth on thy stones before?”

“No,” Beshelar says — and why would he have? Some soldiers do find tender love in one another’s arms, but for most it’s quick and simple relief in another’s hand or mouth or arse. After the act is reciprocated, or in a few cases paid for, it’s as done as if one has brought oneself off by hand in solitude.

Csevet’s expression turns wicked. He plants a soft kiss on each of Beshelar’s inner thighs, making him squirm, as he gently eases them further apart. “Then, I imagine, hast never had this, either” — and his lips press against Beshelar’s hole.

Beshelar jerks away, sitting half-up on the bed, his ears starting to go back. “What — that’s filthy! Why wouldst thou put thy mouth there?” he hisses, mindful not to shout. The Alcethmeret is well built, but the walls are not _that_ thick.

Csevet gives him the patient look of a teacher instructing a particularly dull child. “Art freshly bathed. And from what I can tell, didst wash there too.”

He did; he cannot help that he smells of sweat at the end of an overly warm or effortful day, but he scrubs every inch of himself with a vengeance before bed, every night. That is not the point, however. “Does it matter? It is ….” He hesitates, lest he fall into vulgarity.

“It does,” Csevet says, deadly serious. When Beshelar has no reply to this, Csevet’s head lowers once more.

It is no more like having his cock sucked than was Csevet’s attentions to his stones. But the wetness and warmth and the way Csevet wields his tongue shoot little arrows of fire upward through Beshelar’s loins into his belly. Csevet licks all around the hole, then inward, as far as he can reach; the tip of his tongue feels as pointed, and moves as deftly, as any pen he’s ever taken to paper.

Beshelar groans, his eyes rolling back in his head. He finds his hips lifting from the bed, his thighs spreading wider of their own accord — _like a woman,_ he thinks, _or a pretty man._ But these words in his head bear no sting because Csevet is awakening nerves Beshelar never knew he had, making them sing and forcing soft, breathy noises from him that he absolutely does _not_ make in bed.

After a long and delicious while, Csevet’s tongue falls still, and Beshelar whimpers again, now with frustration. He looks down between his legs. Csevet’s eyes are heavily lidded and very soft, but there is a tension to his mouth. “What’s wrong?” Beshelar asks, fearing Csevet has tasted something foul but is too tactful to say.

“Nothing is wrong. But … I would enter thee, Deret, if it would please thee.” He kisses the inside of Beshelar’s left knee.

“Oh,” Beshelar says, relieved. In sooth he does not prefer it, but Csevet is the most giving lover he has ever had, and he sees no reason he cannot oblige him so, for once.

Csevet’s cock is not as large as Beshelar’s, and he has a generous hand with the oil, and he proceeds slowly. But Beshelar grits his teeth somewhat at how it distends him. It does not hurt, strictly speaking, but the first several thrusts afford him no pleasure, either. Then Csevet moves his hips, just so, and Beshelar is muffling a cry and raising his hips again. Csevet repeats the thrust at the same angle, earrings jingling, and Beshelar is once again making those humiliating noises.

With Beshelar’s solidly muscled legs over his shoulders — Csevet is stronger than he appears — they are more or less face to face. But Csevet demurs, thank the gods, to attempt to kiss him. Instead he strokes the smooth-shaven plane of Beshelar’s left cheek, tracing his lips with his thumb. It feels entirely natural to Beshelar that his tongue flick out to meet Csevet’s thumb, and Csevet whines at the contact.

Several years younger than Csevet and, he suspects, far less experienced in these matters, Beshelar is usually the first to spend. Without his cock being touched it takes him longer to ascend the peak, but the tension winds far more tightly in his gut, in his stones. When he finally tips over the edge it is not with his usual half-stifled groan and a few seconds of his mind gone blank but what feels like half a minute of brainless thrashing and babbling and whimpering. He dimly registers Csevet shuddering and moaning, but when he has regained his wits Csevet is standing by the side of the bed. He is calm and quiet, if still flushed bright red, and attending to Beshelar with a handkerchief.

“Needst not do that,” Beshelar says with a frown.

“I am happy to,” Csevet says smoothly. He mops himself up, then, before he crumples the linen carefully and lays it with equal care on the bedside table. Then he rinses his mouth at the washstand and slips back into bed alongside Beshelar. Initially Beshelar was nervous about spending the night with him. But Csevet is nothing if not discreet, and the servants like both of them well enough, even if they like Csevet more. The servants, in any event, have their own secrets to protect.

“Art very beautiful, Deret,” Csevet says, his lips brushing Beshelar’s temple. No one has ever applied that word to him before. But Beshelar still floats in a sea of soft satiation, and it occurs to him that if Csevet calls another beautiful there must be some truth in it. In response he presses Csevet’s head into the crook of his neck and idly strokes his cheek and hair until sleep comes upon them both.


End file.
